


Risk of Rain

by cobbvanth



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Familial Conflicts, Fluff, I've never seen an episode of GOT & I think that's pretty sexy of me tbh, Inspired by Romeo and Juliet, Mild Angst, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, Tragically requited but forbidden love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Relationships: Oberyn Martell & Reader, Oberyn Martell x Reader, Oberyn Martell x You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Risk of Rain

The bed creaks. You wake to a sudden loss of warmth and the sound of the frame groaning beneath the weight of someone shifting - beautifully and meticulously carved solid oak - it wouldn’t be half as spent if it weren’t for the proclivities of the man currently residing among its silk sheets. 

It’s before dawn. The sky not yet awake is grey, clouds spread flat with the bleak of winter. Sunlight, if it chooses to arrive today, will eventually filter hazily through the heavily drawn woolen curtains draped over each window, and wake your visitor fully. 

But for now he remains on his stomach, his hands tucked beneath the pillows, his head resting on his left arm, asleep. 

Carefully, quietly, you get up. 

The floor is cold, takes adjusting to get used to, so for a moment you sit at the edge and will yourself to embrace the temperature of the room. Close as you are to one of the windowsills, when the wind blows, the air pushing up against the keep acclimates your body for you, and you can sense just how frigid it is outside without having to rise to look out through the glass yourself. 

You should start a fire. Or maybe a hot bath. 

There’s more rustling from the brunette behind you as he moves to lay on his back. You look over your shoulder at him as he stretches, then rubs his eyes of sleep. This is one of your favorite things, getting to watch him in such a vulnerable state; half-dressed, weaponless, his face puffy with fatigue. He isn’t The Red Viper of Dorne, isn’t their Prince or even the sworn enemy of your family tradition and the absence of forgiveness demands. He’s simply Oberyn. The man that adores you. 

He reaches for you, touches your back. “Here I thought I’d be waking alone.” 

You roll your eyes and grin despite yourself, looking out into the room as if observing it will provide you with the motivation to stand up. “After you weaseled yourself into staying the night? You should be waking in the snow. My lady will be coming in soon and I’m running out of good excuses.” 

“Then give her a bad one.” 

The way you have had to escort the poor woman out of your quarters has become nearly routine, most of the time while she’s carrying in your morning or evening tea, the interaction consisting of your insist reassurances that you don’t need anything and her importunity that you let her do her job as you gently push her away by her shoulders, the saucers and kettle rattling atop of a far too expensive tray she seems to be carrying around with her always. She listens, eventually, because it is her job, so getting her back through the door isn’t the hard part. Hoping she doesn’t talk or gossip about the strange behaviors of the province’s young princess is what’s difficult. You come away from these interactions flustered and thirsty and more often than not, with the beverage hot on your wrists and hands. 

“I expect she already has her suspicions, Oberyn. As much as I dislike your nonchalance about this, I much prefer it to your death.” You pick at the downy comforter until it spills a goose feather. Your only consolation is that she hasn’t seemed to figure out what, or rather who, you’ve been secretly harboring. 

Oberyn watches. You don’t see the graveness and worry in his expression. 

“Death means nothing when you are not afraid of it. Besides,” he props himself up on his elbow and kisses his way up your shoulder, his attempt at lifting the mood. “I would die infinite deaths if it meant being at your side a moment longer.” 

“Preying upon the weak hearted…it is too early for this.” You complain with no real venom, allowing his placating affection to ease you into laying on your back. “You have to leave.” 

He leans over you, petting your hair. “Have to…you say these words like they mean something to me.” 

“They should. It’s your neck my father will have if he ever finds out we’re seeing each other.” 

What a nightmare that would be. It’s bad enough you don’t hide your sympathies or disagreements. It’s earned you a reputation that has turned a lot of your family sour with distaste or syrupy with amusement. Your mother, in all her good faith, does her very best to keep the peace whereas your siblings enjoy stoking the fires. As for the people, you’re beloved for speaking your mind, but their opinion does very little to buffer the resentment of their King. His disgust hidden behind the clever disguise of parental caution. If he were to ever truly understand just how far your commiserations extend into the House of Martell, it would mean an end to you both.

“Better my neck than my-” 

You slap away his hand before he can finish his thought. “Stop it! Honestly, it’s a wonder I let you see me at all.” 

“Relax, my love.” Oberyn reclines against the pillows. “How many times have we done this before?” 

“Too many to still have luck on our side.” 

Too many close calls hiding behind corners or in darkened doorways. Too many shoe-less adventures, trying to contain giggles, running down hallways and up flights of stairs with a golden robed shadow. Too many nights spent awake by candlelight waiting for a knock on the glass. Too many ambiguously worded and purposefully codified letters exchanged that only partially alleviate the shock of finding him in your bedroom after having sent a much trusted and incredibly loyal servant to ensure your parchment got into the right hands. 

Too many of these things and simultaneously not enough. 

“It’s a good thing luck isn’t a part of this then, hm?” 

“Oh? Because you’ll slay the next person who dares intrude on our time together?” 

“No.” The brunette counters, smirking with more mirth than you like, something sneaky and mischievous and startlingly sincere in his face. “Because fate looks favorably upon those whose souls are destined to be together…”

You fight your smile, trying to shove him away from you with no real effort. “What’s the difference between fate and luck then?” 

Oberyn drags his fingers slowly up and down your breasts, then in small circles along your collarbones and the notch that dips between them. “Fate is predetermined…it is destiny. Luck, Princess, is simply a bad excuse.” 

You hum in thought, closing your eyes, reaching back to card your fingers through his hair, twisting some of the strands between them. You think nothing of luck or fate. All you’ve cultivated with him has been your own doing. You won’t allow that power to be anyone else’s, not even the Gods. “So wise. Must come with age.” 

“Among with other virtues.” 

Sleep, remaining in this comfortable bed, ignoring your responsibilities, and no longer caring if Abigail finds you are temptations that are getting increasingly ambitious aspirations of your self-control, becoming harder to deny with each tender brush of his fingertips. 

“Ignoring that I just made fun of you? Surely that must be my good luck.” 

You can sense his grin. “I ignore a lot of things. I also happen to remember how enjoyable you found a…different use of my tongue to be last night.” 

Almost. You almost let him have you, but his sneaky comeback makes you gape at his unforgiving, embarrassing reminder, your skin flushing warm with heat. “Get out of my bed. I’m serious! I refuse to be placated by you anymore. I’ve let you get away with too much already.” 

Squirming away from this wretched man, you get out of the bed, only to return to it when it appears he has no indication of leaving. 

Oberyn sits up as you assault him with half-measured movements, nothing at all serious or intended to get him to listen, simply an act to convince him you mean it this time. He catches your wrists, his laughter gathering like dripping honey in your sternum. The sheets pool at his stomach. “And if your lady finds me anyway? Shall I ask her to join us?” 

“Up! Out!” Your attempts at breaking free and shoving him away are foiled when he lets go on his own, leaving your unfortunate forward momentum to send you falling into his chest, your bearings returning in just enough time for you to catch yourself on his shoulders. 

He rubs your sides all the way to your ribcage, then back down, quiet adoration in his expression.

You rest your forehead against his own, whispering softly. “I detest you.” 

“Would it be a surprise to you, your grace, that I’ve been told much worse?” 

Thinking about anyone hating him aches. He’s a good man, with strong principles and the courage to still harbor them when challenged. He respects you. Treats you like a person. Around him, you aren’t a subject to be studied or a lesser being in need of control. You’re his heart. And he is one of the few honorable of his kind, it seems. 

“Anyone unwilling or unable to appreciate you is a fool.” 

Oberyn touches your cheek. You bow into his palm without thinking. “You should be kinder to your people. Those created lacking spines cannot help being born without the capacity for higher thought.”

“My people would see to it that you are killed. Any kindness I extend in their direction would be like sticking my hand into the mouth of a wolf hoping it doesn’t bite.” 

“You could always return to Dorne with me and live among those with decency equal to your own.” 

“And start a needless war? Contrary to what some might believe, I speak my mind trying to bring peace.” 

You’ve thought about it and there are next to no scenarios in which that ends well for either of you. The political implications of someone of your position running off with the promiscuous prince of a more liberally minded region would mean chaos. 

“Peace…” He repeats. “I am patient, my love, but I am also a man that knows what he needs. War will come regardless of whether or not it is desired and I cannot go much longer not having you.” 

You exhale as temperate as water, feeling suddenly like it’s wrong to be loud when everything is still so mute. The birds haven’t even begun to sing. “You already have the parts of me that count.” 

He is silent for a long moment. You can’t bring yourself to look into his face, knowing the pain you’d find carved there by months of this endless torment, and instead watch the tense of muscle in his shoulders. “I suppose that I do.” 

“Your lips…” Oberyn tilts his chin and it isn’t a full kiss, not really, just a brush of his mouth against yours that’s electric anyway. “Your hands…” 

This time he reaches down, embraces your hands and nearly engulfs them entirely - his own battle worn and rough with spear calluses, you could spend a lifetime admiring them - lifting your knuckles to his mouth and kissing them, too. “Your breasts…” 

His thumb brushes each nipple, still holding your palms. Deep brown eyes admire, appreciate, worship. He kisses the top of both. Then drags his lips along the middle of your chest, slightly to the left, making sure to meet your gaze when he says - 

“Your heart.” 

There’s an unspoken end of his sentence that he leaves out, something you’re both aware of yet neither of you want to say out loud. 

“Oberyn…” 

“I know I must leave.” 

You’d think that after this much time it’d get easier to say goodbye. “I wish it were different.” 

“It can be. It will be.” He says this with such conviction that you almost allow yourself to be convinced of it. 

At the sound of approaching footsteps, you pull away from him before you become too lax, the movement chafing every bit of you that longs to still be near him. 

“I will return to you when I can.” 

It’s all you can do to nod. “Get dressed quickly. I’ll distract her for as long as I can.” 

The expediency in which you both get dressed should be impressive if the circumstances weren’t so agonizing. You stand, now, draped in your morning frock - Abigail will dress you after you’ve finished breakfast, as Oberyn secures his belt. 

You’re about to say something when the door opens. “Good morning, Your Highness.” 

You share a look. Yours of panic, his of devilish delight. 

Oberyn steps forward and kisses you deeply. “I am devoted to you.” 

Gods, you could almost risk it. 

“Her Royal Highness, The Queen, has requested that you join her after your meal-” 

“And I you. Now go! Shoo before she sees you!” 

He grins one last time before disappearing down the corridor.


End file.
